"The Last Message Before Midnight"

It all started with a text message.

11:47 PM. Buzz. One notification. One sentence.

"Don’t let midnight come, or it all resets."

Maya blinked at her phone. Unknown number. No context. Just a warning that felt more like a riddle. She was sitting in her apartment, half-watching a documentary, sipping her tea—nothing unusual about the night until that moment.

She texted back, "Who is this?"

Delivered. No response.

11:49 PM. The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Gone. Complete darkness. Her phone screen still glowed. A second message came through:

"Look under the floorboard. Hurry."

Adrenaline replaced confusion. Maya lived alone. Her apartment was small, modern, no obvious secrets. But something compelled her—maybe it was curiosity, or the sinking dread in her stomach.

She grabbed a flashlight, aimed it at the hardwood floor, and scanned. Near the edge of her bookshelf, she noticed a small scratch—a mark she’d never seen before. She tapped the wood. Hollow.

With shaking fingers, she pried the board open using a butter knife. Inside: a dusty tin box, a polaroid photo of her as a child… and a journal.

She flipped to the last page:

"Maya, if you’re reading this, it means the loop is still going. Midnight resets everything. Your memories, the world, your choices. You’ve read this before. Do something different this time. Save her."

11:55 PM.

She stared at the photo again. There was a girl beside her. Same eyes. But Maya couldn’t remember her.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Then it hit her. Flashes—memories that weren’t memories. The girl’s laugh, her name, the accident…

And every time, Maya forgot. Because at midnight, reality restarted.

11:58 PM. Another text:

"Window. Now."

She ran to the window. Across the street, a figure waved—small, familiar. The girl from the photo.

11:59 PM.

Maya didn’t think. She sprinted out of her apartment, across the street, into the night—just as the world trembled.

12:00 AM.

But this time, the clock didn’t reset.